


Think of All The Fellas I Haven't Kissed

by scarredsodeep



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Attempted Seduction, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Humor, M/M, Mistletoe, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Pre-Hiatus (Fall Out Boy), Santa Kink, Silliness and smut, Silly, Small Out Boy, Smut, Tales from 2004, Van Days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 06:54:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17137088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarredsodeep/pseuds/scarredsodeep
Summary: Like so many of Pete’s bad sexual decisions, the Mrs. Claus costume starts as a joke.





	Think of All The Fellas I Haven't Kissed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leyley09](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leyley09/gifts).



> This fic is entirely the fault of [Leyna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leyley09/pseuds/leyley09), who is the worst fic enabler I have ever met in my LIFE. I will love and cherish her always.
> 
> I am getting all kinds of fucked up this Christmas season with family bullshit, so I hope this sweet silly nonsense can be the same distraction and balm to your soul that it has been to mine! I hope you are all celebrating with people you love who are capable of loving you back in a way that lifts, lights, and nourishes. 
> 
> Can't wait to see what we cook up together in 2019, gang. 
> 
> All of my love, always--  
> k / shark of legend / peterick institute faculty / scarredsodeep

 

Like so many of Pete’s bad sexual decisions, the Mrs. Claus costume starts as a joke.

It’s not even his _fault_ , is the thing. Here’s what happens: _Santa Baby_ comes on at the mall. For no discernible reason, in the middle of f.y.e., Patrick Stump turns red as a divorce lawyer’s fingernails and emits an involuntarily gurgle of disgust.

Pete pauses in his flip-through of R&B new releases. “Flucccgh?” he echoes. “You turning into a zombie over there, Pat?”

“I just don’t think Christmas is sexy,” he complains.

Over in the rock section, Joe rolls his eyes. “Here comes the gripe,” he says.

“C’mon, doesn’t it creep you out when they play songs about grown-ass women wanting to fuck Santa Claus? Weird entendres about sitting on Santa’s lap and all that?” Patrick shudders. “Oh! Or how messed up is the infidelity-ambiguous _I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus_ , where some child thinks his mom is macking on a home intruder? Like, how is that kid supposed to feel about Christmas now, about his parents’ marriage? No thanks. A six-year-old shouldn’t have to deal with all that just ‘cause his parents want to go for a romp in a red velvet suit. It’s fucking creepy.”

“So does Patrick have childhood Claus-related trauma, or…?” Joe asks. “Did Santa catch you jerking off or something?”

“He _does_ see you when you’re sleeping. He knows when you’re awake,” Pete intones ominously.

“He knows if you’ve been bad or good, so don’t play with yourself for goodness sake!” Joe sings with glee.

“You are so fucking awful,” Patrick tells them sourly. “I’m not getting presents for either of you.”

Pete’s eyes are gleaming. Patrick’s half-angry awkward squirm is Pete’s favorite of all human inventions. “So you don’t think _Mr_. Claus is sexy,” Pete teases, tapping his chin in consideration. “What about his wife?”

Even Crayola doesn’t have a name for the color Patrick turns. Pete just wants to keep that blush going. He just wants to help it spread to all the parts of Patrick he can only imagine, the places Patrick never in a million years would allow him to touch.

“Christmas is a nonsexual holiday!” Patrick sputters. “It’s scratchy sweaters, pine needle allergies, drinking eggnog with your grandma, and weird elf decor that always seems like it’s watching you.”

“It’s mistletoe and Die Hard, tight sequin dresses and fooling around at the nondenominational office party, ice-skating and kissing with cold noses. All the sexiest things. Including Mrs. Claus,” Pete counters.

“How many holidays are you going to ruin with your weird crush on Bruce Willis?” Patrick says.

“Whoa whoa whoa. There’s _nothing_ weird about having a crush on Bruce,” says Joe. He pushes a shrink-wrapped CD into Patrick’s hands. “Buy this for me for Hanukkah.”

Patrick pushes the CD back into Joe’s hands. “Pay your share of rent for Hanukkah.”

A shoving match breaks out, the new Velvet Underground CD sailing back and forth between them, til Pete dips his hand into the fray and snatches it. He’s had a job delivering Chinese food for a week and a half, any day now royalties from their first record should start trickling in, and he’s feeling flush and magnanimous. “ _I’ll_ buy it for you,” he says. “And then let’s go up to JJ Blinker’s and try on sexy Santa costumes til it makes Rickster scream.”

“ _Absolutely_ not,” Patrick snarls. “I’ll scream right here for free, don’t think I won’t.” He punches Pete in the arm so hard that Pete drops everything he’s holding. Jewel cases fly everywhere, but that punch tells Pete two important things: one, he’s going to bruise in the shape of Patrick’s fist, a mark he’ll be fingering til it heals, and two, he is absolutely getting a Santa suit.

*

Pete fixes his bangs in the fitting room mirror, smoothing them down over his lined eyes just so. He turns side to side, admiring the way the red velour and white fluff trim sits snug across his ass. His thighs rub together rosy and firm; the costume ends well above the knee. He has boots that will go perfectly in his closet at home: knee-high black latex with bondage buckles and perilous platforms.

It’s not the most embarrassing reason he’s ever been at the costume shop, but Pete thinks it’s the sexiest. He snaps a picture of himself from his patented Myspace angle and starts undressing, seeing how sensual he can make his velvet unsheathing.

“Sir? I found the men’s Claus costume,” the salesperson calls through the fitting room door. “I think you may have the women’s one.”

“Thanks, but don’t need it,” Pete calls back. “Mrs. Claus is perfect.”

*

Pete has never been so anxious-excited for Christmas in his life, not even when he was 8 and waiting for Santa to bring him the Creepy Crawlers gummy factory. He’s had a crush on Patrick for, well, _forever_ , and though the idea of actually being honest about his feelings is absurd, the idea of setting up an elaborate prank involving mistletoe and Santa drag and trying to make Patrick’s Kris Kringle tingle? That’s right up Pete’s alley. Like any good harebrained scheme, Pete has no idea what the consequences might be, nor has he put much thought into it. But there’s the barest chance Patrick might kiss him, and Pete’s a virtuoso at using chances for parachutes and hoping like hell they deploy in time.

He even buys briefs that say _DO NOT OPEN BEFORE CHRISTMAS_ across the butt. That’s how ready he is. Now all he needs is for the calendar to catch up.

*

December 24, 2004. The stage is set for Pete’s last big prank of the year. Andy’s at his mom’s in Milwaukee, Jo’s filling in at one of their friend’s shows, and Patrick’s finishing out an insane seasonal retail shift at the mall. Not a creature is stirring, not even a mouse. The lights are out, except for the glow of their little Christmas tree, adorned with lazy handfuls of tinsel and a bunch of Cubs ornaments.

Patrick should be home any minute. Pete’s all decked out as sexy Mrs. Claus, his thorny ‘cleavage’ gleaming with glitter, perched on the edge of the bar counter with his ankles crossed. The boots squeeze his calves with a wet paint shine and the skirt stretches, casting the gap between his legs in alluring shadow. He’s got mistletoe, he’s got a lit string of Christmas lights draped over his shoulders like a feather boa. It’s not important how much money he’s spent on this elaborate gag, really. For everything else there’s Mastercard, right?

It’s exciting. He’s excited. Pete’s skin prickles with anticipation, his heartbeat buzzing in his throat. He wants to see the look on Patrick’s face while Patrick looks at him. He wants Patrick to twist the strand of Christmas lights around his throat. He wants Patrick to push him up against a wall, push up his skirt, and—

Pete’s dick is hard and visible, a lump this skirt was never designed to accommodate, when he hears the jingle of Patrick’s key in the door. Showtime.

Patrick steps inside, busy fussing with coat and keys, and locks the door behind him. Pete squirms in anticipation, waiting to be noticed. Patrick takes 12 eons to unwind his scarf. Pete can’t take it anymore: he calls out, “Hey Pattycakes, heard you were on the naughty list. Want to sit on Santa’s lap?”

Patrick lets out a yelp and drops the bag he was holding. It hits the floor with the unmistakable sound of takeout containers losing their structural integrity. Sweet and sour sauce spreads like an aromatic bloodstain from the site of the crash.

“What the FUCK!” Patrick manages. Pete hops off the counter, unwinds himself from the string of lights, and sashays wobbily towards Patrick on his four inch platforms. He expects Patrick to back up, to move away from him—but Patrick stands firm.

Pete offers his toothiest grin. “I’m your Christmas present. Come unwrap me.”

Pete has no idea what going to happen next, but he figures it will involve punching. The taste of blood on his tongue, swelling to remember this moment by: the next best thing to an actual kiss.

Ashen-faced and trembling, Patrick grabs a fistful of faux fur at Pete’s v-neck collar. Pete’s eyelids flutter closed and he braces for impact—so he doesn’t see it coming, when Patrick kisses him. He expects a fist, and Patrick’s mouth falls on his with similar force. Pete gasps, his mouth opening involuntarily, and Patrick’s teeth tear at his unready lips, Patrick’s mouth smashes against his own, Patrick’s tongue sweeps him open wider. Patrick’s fist around his collar pulls him in closer, and Patrick’s angry other hand closes round his throat.

Pete’s eyes fly open in disbelief. Patrick Stump is _kissing him_. He is being _kissed by Patrick Stump_. He rasps, “It’s a Christmas miracle.”

Patrick steers him by the throat, a few tripping step backwards til Pete’s back roughly meets the wall. “Christmas,” Patrick growls, and his face is a mask is fury, and his lips are pink obscenities, and his mouth is made of gasping, “ _is not a sexual holiday._ ”

Pete wriggles his hips against Patrick’s, his skirt tenting over what he’s got beneath it. “Feels pretty sexy to me,” he says brightly. “Did you know: kissing under mistletoe was once considered a promise to wed?” There’s no blood left in his entire brain; he’s going all the way insane; he’s making jokes because he doesn’t know how he’ll cope, if any of this is actually _real_.

“What, so you’re _proposing_ right now?” Patrick demands. The look in his eyes—it is a look that aligns his entire body with purpose and intention. It is a look that moves him towards Pete.

Pete rolls his hips again, finds Patrick’s groin pleasantly hard to roll against. “I am if you’re saying yes,” he says. “I’m proposing anything and everything you’ll agree to.”

One of Patrick’s hands drops, finding Pete’s solid, shapely thigh and sliding up it to cup his ass under the Claus skirt. Patrick lets out a frustrated little moan and glowers at Pete like they’re enemies. Pete can’t taste anything but his own heartbeat. Or maybe it’s Patrick’s—their heads are just that close. He gasps when Patrick squeezes, a compulsive fist around Pete’s ass.

Patrick lets go of his throat—Pete tries not to be too regretful about this—and reaches around to grab Pete’s other thigh. Suddenly, he’s lifting. Suddenly he’s lifting Pete into the air, onto his hips, and Pete’s boots squeak together as he wraps his legs around Patrick’s waist. The way Patrick’s lifting him spreads his ass cheeks, and Pete feels ten types of ways about it, but the main thing is he’s high in the air and Patrick’s arms are freakishly strong around him, his legs hold him tight against Patrick’s belt buckle, and all he can do is stare down into the deadly intention in this kid’s sea glass eyes.

“Patrick?”

“Yes, Pete?”

“What are you giving _me_ for Christmas?”

Patrick’s mouth twists in a wicked smirk. He starts walking in the direction of his bedroom, a bit clumsy with Pete riding him, but steady nonetheless. “Let’s find out.”

 

On his back on Patrick’s bed, skirt hiked by Patrick’s hands above his waist, Pete Wentz has never been happier. He’s just been carried to bed by a _man_ while dressed in drag, and he can’t tell the tremendous excitement he’s experiencing now is because he has some kind of previously untapped heteronormativity kink or because _this is Patrick_ , this is what he’s always dreamed of and never dared ask for.

No, no. Too real. Don’t think about that.

Before he has a thought he can’t take back, Pete blurts out something inane to break his own internal tension. “Is that a candy cane in your pocket or are you happy to see me?”

Patrick’s mouth, which has been the source material for more of Pete’s solitary sexual experiences than he cares to admit, is shining red and a little swollen from the force with which he’s been smashing it against Pete’s. He pants out, “You are so _fucking_ annoying,” and bites his bottom lip. He’s staring down at Pete like he can’t fucking stand it. This is the same eye contact they make when they’re writing, when they’re locked in conflict about a line or a song. It’s always given Pete a boner, and maybe now he’ll actually get to use it.

Patrick, still chomping on that bottom lip, traces the outline of Pete’s rigid dick with the back of a crooked finger. Pete makes fists of the mattress, trying to stay still, but can’t help squirming a little under that touch, bucking into it. Light as a ghost, like Patrick’s afraid what will happen if he makes real contact, but it pins Pete to the mattress like fucking magnetism.

“More,” Pete requests, his voice half-whimper. Serious as a scientist, with the same curious remove, Patrick takes his hand and clamps it over Pete’s mouth. Then he leans his weight onto it, puts his knees on either side of Pete’s spread legs, and strokes the lightest line down the length of Pete again. Pete’s back arches and he presses his pelvis into the sensation. Patrick bears down on his mouth, silencing him, so Pete doesn’t try to stifle his excited groan.

“Did you really do all _this_ ,” Patrick whispers, flicking at the hem of the skirt so it folds up over Pete’s belly, grinding his palm ever-so-briefly against the shaft of Pete’s dick, “just to seduce me?”

Pete laughs against Patrick’s hand, shaking his head. Patrick’s frown sharpens and he rolls up the edge of his hand, just enough that Pete can speak.

“No way,” Pete says. He’s giggling, stupid with the blissed-out sensation, with the prospect of more kissing, with the promise of Patrick’s hand hovering above his already leaking dick. “It was a joke, dude. I had no idea you actually had a Claus kink.”

Patrick’s face is changing too fast for Pete to track. He slaps his hand firmly down over Pete’s mouth again, but his eyes are wide with alarm. His other hand is nowhere near Pete’s junk anymore.

“So I wasn’t supposed to kiss you,” he says. His voice holds horrors.

Pete tries to protest, _You’ve been supposed to kiss me since the day we met_ or _technically no, but I’m so glad you did_ or _only because I never would have guessed I’d get so lucky_ , but when he opens his mouth Patrick pushes down so hard that Pete actually chokes on his own tongue as it’s forced into his throat. He struggles against the choking situation, his teeth hook Patrick’s hand, and before he knows it, Patrick has sprung off the bed, is on the other side of the room wild-eyed and cursing with his gushing hand cradled against his chest, and Pete’s mouth is full of blood and oh, god, yes, no, fuck, _that is definitely a chunk of Patrick’s hand_.

Pete spits out the small slice of Patrick’s skin—neither blood nor _actual detached_ _flesh_ were parts of Patrick he’d hoped to have in his mouth tonight—and gags blood all over his Claus suit. So much for getting his deposit back.

“Mother _fucker_!” Patrick is howling, so far away from where Pete is on this bed it may as well be the North Pole. “You bit my fucking hand off!”

“You tried to murder me _in the mouth_!” Pete accuses back. “Jesus, Patrick, lighten up!”

Patrick is flushed like a cooked lobster with anger-and-or-embarrassment. He’s shaking his head. “What the fuck, though, Pete? How long were you gonna let this—this joke play out? This isn’t like pissing in somebody’s closet or filling their shampoo bottle with soy sauce.”

“Which you still haven’t apologized for,” Pete remembers, points out. He’s not really comprehending the seriousness of the situation, even with his mouth tasting like organ meat, even with Patrick very much _over there_ when previously he was so wonderfully _right here_.

Patrick’s face goes the color of an atomic bomb test site at sunrise. Every time Pete thinks it can’t possibly get redder, Patrick gives him a reason to invent a new metaphor. “I’M SORRY MY PRANK WAS INSENSITIVE, PETE!” The words just explode out of him. “I’m so fucking sorry I didn’t consider how it would affect you emotionally and spiritually when I pissed in your closet! I’m sorry I didn’t think about whether it would _damage you long-term_ to be fake-seduced by your _best friend_ for the sake of a _funny story about Santa-related boners_ that you could tell over eggnog at holiday parties!”

He’s gasping by the time he’s done. His fists are balled at his sides, one of them dripping blood from its bite mark. For a second Pete thinks he’s never seen Patrick so angry—then he realizes this isn’t anger, because Patrick’s face crumples and he starts to cry.

“So you’ve outed me and humiliated me,” Patrick says bitterly. “Are you happy now? Is it time for the fucking laugh track? Because if you’re fucking finished with your hilarious joke, I’d like you to get out of my room so I can be alone.”

Pete’s mouth has fallen open. His brain is spinning so fast just to keep up. Luckily his mouth moves faster than his brain ever could, because he’s speaking again before he’s got the faintest idea of what to say. “Of course I’m not happy,” he hears himself say, soft and full of wonder. “Fuck, Patrick. I was happy when you had your hands on my ass, when you were on top of me. I was happy when you were kissing me like you meant it.”

Patrick is breathing so hard Pete can see his chest heaving from all the way over here.

“Of course I want you to kiss me,” Pete says. He’s saying what’s true now—no takebacks. “I—of course I want to marry you under the fucking mistletoe. Are you kidding? I’ve been trying to figure out how to pledge the rest of my life to you since the day we _met_. The costume was a joke, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t _mean it_. Like—have you met me? I’m an idiot. I do things like this: upside down, inside out, backwards and wrong. The only shit I ever get right is the shit I don’t mean. Everything real, I… I fuck it up.”

Patrick’s hands are still fists. “It is really difficult to take you seriously while you’re wearing that,” he says through clenched teeth. “I think I’m gonna need to take it off you for this conversation to continue.”

Pete does a double-take. “I—what?”

But Patrick is crossing the room to him. He sucks the last few runnels of blood off his hand, then reaches out for the belt binding Pete’s wrap dress shut. “I said, I’m gonna need to take it off.”

And he undoes Pete’s big-buckled belt, deft and one-handed. His hands only shake a little as he peels apart the folds of the dress and leaves Pete’s heaving chest exposed. His hands hover over Pete, not quite making contact. Pete’s dick has whiplash from the emotional turnaround of the last ten minutes, but it’s not any less hard for it.

“Now,” Patrick says, gazing down at Pete’s body, his eyes lingering and burning in a way they never have before, “what was it you wanted to say to me?”

His fingers dip down, stroke a light tripping path past Pete’s nipple and down his ribs, dipping to the side and over his belly just before they reach his waistband. Pete can hardly breathe. “I want—this,” Pete manages. Patrick’s hand slips up his other side. “With you.”

“Because it makes a good punchline?” Patrick’s brows go up challengingly, but he can’t quite hide his smirk.

Pete catches Patrick’s hand, presses it against the hardness of his cock, the damp spot on his holiday briefs. “Because you are the most beautiful thing.”

Patrick falls on him, their mouths colliding. They kiss with raw urgency, with hunger that leaves no time for tenderness—with the understanding that they can be tender later, after they have satiated this tearing black-hole need. With the understanding that, actually, they have _plenty_ of time. Pete’s need is tremendous, and he rocks his hips so his dick moves against Patrick’s hand, and Patrick grips him through the fabric of his underwear, Pete’s hands slip up under Patrick’s shirt and find his sides and belly, his chest and nipples, his collarbones. The way Patrick looks above him, his weight braced on an arm planted next to Pete’s head, the strong yoke of his shoulders and the visible muscle of his arms—it is a _manly shape_ , and Pete is absolutely fucking wild for it—this is the best Christmas eve of all time. This is the best gift Pete has ever received.

“You take off your pants,” he rasps to Patrick. “I’ll run to my nightstand and get another present for you to unwrap.”

Patrick laughs breathless. “Is it condoms? Please tell me it’s condoms.”

“It is absolutely condoms.”

Patrick smacks his ass as he goes. Pete skids on peeling hardwood, his open dress flapping behind him and his boots nearly ending his life. He doesn’t care—after years of pining, Patrick Stump might actually consent to fuck him tonight. There is not a second to waste.

When he gets back to Patrick’s bedroom, the world winnows down to a series of sensations, to snapshots. Patrick’s mouth gratefully finding his again. The heat of their tongues, the wetslick of their meeting. Patrick’s belt jingling as his jeans hit the floor. The wondrous heft of his thighs, the way they squeeze in Pete’s hands. Their bare torsos sliding one against the other. Patrick’s fingers sweeping below Pete’s briefs, velvet-to-callus contact of fingertip to straining dick. Pete straddling Patrick’s lap, the way Patrick’s red dick pops free of fabric and how Pete bends to catches the tip of it with tongue and lips. The sound of foil tearing and the cool spread of lube, the way Pete stretches his asshole with his own fingers to show Patrick how, the way every second of it burns brilliant and too much. Patrick pressing Pete’s shoulders and face down into the mattress, Pete on his knees. Patrick crying out with insensible pleasure as he presses the head of his dick into Pete. Pete’s writhing, his uncontrolled moan and yell, as Patrick gives him what he can take and then _more_ , little by little by _all of it_. The golden gland that the length and girth of Patrick brushes up against, the way pressure builds til Pete is on that edge he wants to overflow, spill over. Pete’s skin is stuffed with this. It’s too much. It’s just enough. There’s no such thing in the world as _enough_.

Because he’s still Pete, he yells “ _ho ho ho!_ ” when he comes.

Patrick slaps his ass with real fury and starts laughing, so that his body is shaking with it as he comes too, his hips flush against Pete’s ass so he’s in the deepest part of Pete’s body when he finally lets go. They are locked together like this, and Pete would stay forever, but a shudder ripples through Patrick’s thighs and he collapses onto Pete’s back. Pete lays them both down on the bed, Patrick pulling out of Pete and putting the used condom aside.

“This is not,” Pete says into the bedding he’s now drooled on and screamed into, “what I expected when I rented that costume.”

Patrick’s fingers trace lightly up Pete’s back. His voice is low and golden with post-orgasm contentment. They shoot up on oxytocin together. “Rented? I hope that doesn’t mean you’re gonna return it.”

Pete turns his head, his canines showing in a smile as he catches Patrick’s eye. “Oh yeah? You think I should keep it?”

Patrick shrugs, his cheeks rosy, his face fresh and calm. “You’ve never returned anything you’ve borrowed. Wouldn’t want to break your streak.”

“And is that the only reason…?”

Patrick hides his grin in Pete’s back. “I could get used to you in a skirt,” he mumbles against Pete’s skin.

Pete shivers. Christmas miracle indeed. He can’t remember ever feeling happier than he does in this moment, so he copes with it the only way he knows how: by being an ass. Low and sweet, he starts singing, “I saw Patrick kissing Saaaanta Claus, underneath the mistletoe tonight…”

“I’m gonna stuff that mistletoe down your throat if you don’t stop!” Patrick warns, laughing.

“You can stuff anything you _want_ down my throat,” Pete promises. “But Patrick—what a laugh it would have been, if Daddy had only seen…”

Patrick grabs Pete’s naked sides and starts tickling him, rough and without mercy. “Stop, stop, stop! Shut up!”

Pete laughs, rolling over to wrestle properly. “Oh, sorry, did _you_ want to be Daddy?” Naked and sweaty and warm with one another’s embrace, they scrabble and clash. There is no winner, or at least, they start kissing again before a victor can be announced...

They don’t sleep much that night, just like kids waiting up to hear Santa fumbling under the tree. Come dawn, it will be Christmas morning. Patrick is the first gift Pete’s gonna open. He can’t fucking wait.


End file.
